“I tested the seed in a seed box early in the spring. I wouldn't plant corn any other way. Aside from the hills the moles have spoiled, and a few an old crow pulled up, I've got no re-planting to do. “And replanted hills are always behind the crop, and seldom make anything but fodder. If it wasn't for the look of the field, I'd never re-plant a hill of corn. “Of course, I've got to thin this--two grains in the hill is enough on this land.” Mr. Bronson looked at him with growing surprise. “Why, my boy, you talk just as though you had tilled the ground for a score of years. Who taught you so much about farming?” “One of the best farmers who ever lived,” said Hiram, with a smile. “My father. And he taught me to go to the correct sources for information, too.” “I believe you!” exclaimed Mr. Bronson. “And you're going to have 'corn that's corn', as we say in my part of the country, on this piece of land.” “Wait!” said Hiram, smiling and shaking his head. “Wait for what?” “Wait till you see the corn on my bottom-land--if the river down there doesn't drown it out. If we don't have too much rain, I'm going to have corn on that river-bottom that will beat anything in this county, Mr. Bronson.” And the young farmer spoke with assurance. CHAPTER XXV. THE BARBECUE On the seventeenth day of June Hiram had “grappled out” a mess of potatoes for their dinner. They were larger than hen's eggs and came upon the table mealy and white. Potatoes were selling at retail in Scoville for two dollars the bushel. Before the end of that week--after the lowland corn was planted--Hiram dug two rows of potatoes, sorted them, and carted them to town, together with some bunched beets, a few bunches of young carrots, radishes and salad. The potatoes he sold for fifty cents the five-eighth basket, from house to house, and he brought back, for his load of vegetables, ten dollars and twenty cents, which he handed to Mrs. Atterson, much to that lady's joy. “My soul and body, Hiram!” she exclaimed. “This is just a God-send--no less. Do you know that we've sold nigh twenty-five dollars' worth of stuff already this spring, besides that pair of pigs I let Pollock have, and the butter to St. Beris?” “And it's only a beginning,” Hiram told her. “Wait til' the peas come along--we'll have a mess for the table in a few days now. And the sweet corn and tomatoes. “If you and Sister can do the selling, it will help out a whole lot, of course. I wish we had another horse.” “Or an automobile,” said Sister, clapping her hands. “Wouldn't it be fine to run into town in an auto, with a lot of vegetables? Then Hiram could keep right at work with the horse and not have to stop to harness up for us.” “Shucks, child!” admonished Mrs. Atterson. “What big idees you do get in that noddle o' yourn.”